Chapter Text
Segundus heard rather than felt his knees connect with the floor. His breath burst out of him and he wondered faintly if he was expiring from shock. The silver bowl tumbled from the table and landed straight on his hand, yet the pain was nothing.
Dimly, he could hear voices. The door to his study burst open and several pairs of feet came into view. Someone was speaking. It was like he was underwater. He could understand nothing.
“Mr. Segundus?” Slowly the words began to register. “Mr. Segundus, sir. What on earth has happened?”
He looked up at Mr. Honeyfoot’s kind, broad face.
“John Childermass is dead,” he whispered, and knew no more.
When Segundus woke the sun was shining brightly outside his window.
Why am I sleeping in the middle of the afternoon? He sat up slowly. The movement attracted the attention of Mr. Honeyfoot, who was sitting nearby poring over a newspaper.
“Mr. Segundus!” Honeyfoot cried, folding the publication. “You’re awake. My dear sir, is it really true?”
“True?” Segundus frowned. “What do you speak of?”
“Mr. Childermass,” said the older man. With a brutal jolt, Segundus remembered. His blood turned to ice and he slumped back against the pillows.
“Oh dear. Let me bring you some tea.” Honeyfoot hurried from the room.
Surely he had been wrong. His spell had failed—after all, Segundus had always been a weak magician. He rushed to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that ensued, and cast about himself furiously. There. He always kept a silver bowl in his room.
Segundus snatched it up. He poured it full of water from his pitcher. Drawing a deep breath, he performed the spell.
Mr. Childermass was not in England, in Europe, or in Faerie.
With a start, Segundus realized that his face was wet. He seized a handkerchief and dabbed at his cheeks, but somehow it didn’t much seem to help. He heard sobbing, then understood suddenly that it was coming from him.
He had to stay calm. He had to stay calm. Mr. Honeyfoot would be back here any moment and by that time Segundus must have control.
Because, of course, no one must know.
Segundus closed his eyes and imagined that he was reaching into his own chest, hands sliding in smooth and slow. He felt himself grasp the warm, wet, pulsing object that was his heart and he slid it carefully out. He imagined placing it in his desk drawer and locking the key.
Good, he told himself. Good, now get up.
He staggered to his feet. Someone was speaking again, someone was outside in the hallway. He would have to explain. And he mustn’t weep.
Segundus took a deep breath.
The watching had truly been innocent at first. Childermass left to retrieve Vinculus, who had made one of his (many) escape attempts. And Segundus, fearful that they might lose the King’s Book, cast a spell to see if Childermass had found the old street magician.
His magic produced an image of the two men sitting in a pub. Vinculus was demolishing a pork pie with alarming rapidity. Childermass was brooding over a pint of ale. It occurred to Segundus that he had never before had the opportunity to watch Childermass for so long before. He found it rather fascinating. The man’s face was so… not handsome, yet intriguing. Striking. His eyes were so dark and mysterious. The way he slumped against the table showed how tired he was. No doubt he had not slept for fear of letting the Book escape once more…
Segundus reached out to touch Childermass’ face and his fingers broke through water. Startled, he drew back. How long had he watched the other man for? A glance at his pocketwatch showed that it had been almost an hour.
“No matter, no matter,” Segundus murmured to himself. After all, he was concerned for his-not friend, exactly, but acquaintance. Yes. That was it. And he wished to ensure that Vinculus was recovered. That was all.
Convinced, Segundus went about his day as usual. And all was well until Childermass’ return. It was late at night and the household had gone to sleep. Segundus, however, became caught up in his biography of Jonathan Strange and lost track of time. The sound of the rain was soothing, mesmerizing…
He had almost fallen asleep at his desk when a loud banging woke him with a start. Segundus hurried down the stairs and unlatched the door.
“Mr. Segundus.” Childermass nodded at him and shoved Vinculus inside. Both men were drenched. They looked as though they’d been bathing with all of their clothes on.
“Oh my. You must be freezing cold! Here, gentlemen, let me stoke the fire.” Segundus hurried ahead of them into the kitchen. He prodded at the warm, low fire with an iron then began making tea.
“Thank you,” Childermass said, shrugging off his coat. He draped it over a chair, proceeding to remove his waistcoat and cravat as well. Segundus watched, wide-eyed. Childermass’ shirt clung to him tightly, the wet fabric accentuating his muscular body.
“Enough of that!” Childermass snarled, and Segundus gave a start. He went limp with relief a moment later when he realized that Childermass was addressing Vinculus, who had helped himself to some brandy.
The two began to bicker as Segundus brought them their tea. He could not shake the strange feeling that he was a naughty schoolboy who had been spared a much-deserved punishment.
He didn’t notice he was staring again until Childermass turned to him. “Is something amiss?”
“Oh.” Segundus shook his head furiously. “No. No, I simply, I was thinking you must be ready to sleep. I am certain your journey has been an exhausting one.”
“It has.” Childermass treated Vinculus to another withering glare. “I believe I shall retire. I am warding the house, Vinculus, and if you attempt to escape again I will know.”
The street magician responded to this with an inventive stream of profanities. This accomplished, he stomped up the stairs as loudly as possible. Childermass rolled his eyes expressively.
“I should skin him,” he muttered. “Then it would be much more convenient to consult the Book, and I need not traipse about the countryside after that miserable fool.”
Segundus laughed. “Perhaps John Uskglass would be upset if his book was damaged,” he suggested.
“I would be very careful,” Childermass said darkly. He gave a massive yawn and got slowly to his feet. “Good night, Mr. Segundus.” He picked up his and Vinculus’ teacups.
“Oh, I’ll wash those,” said Segundus hurriedly. “You must be tired. Go on.” It was only as he began to clean the cups that he realized Childermass was giving him an odd look.
“What?” he asked self-consciously.
“Nothing. Only, I can’t remember ever being fussed over so much.”
Segundus flushed, but he saw that he was not being mocked. Childermass’ brow was furrowed, and his arms hung awkwardly at his sides. As though he was not sure what to do with them.
He is used to being a servant, Segundus reminded himself. Even if he’s never really acted like one.
“Everyone deserves to be treated with care when they need it,” he responded, staring at the teacups he was drying. Suddenly he found it difficult to meet Childermass’ gaze.
The other man cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, um. Thank you.” These last words were mumbled softly. It was painfully clear that Childermass was unused to having anything to thank others for. Segundus felt a rush of pity. Despite the bullies he’d suffered in school, despite the mortifying comparisons between his brothers’ abilities and his own failings, he’d always had others to care for him. His mother, Mr. Honeyfoot. Segundus had never been alone in the way that Childermass so clearly was.
“Think nothing of it,” said Segundus, and he smiled warmly at the other man. Childermass nodded and left at last for bed.
He worried about Childermass. Surely this was perfectly natural, Segundus assured himself. After all, they both resided at Starecross—well, when Childermass was not out wandering the countryside. And they both sought to further the cause of English magic; Segundus with his school, which (if all went well) would open in a year, and Childermass with his translation of the King’s Book. They were colleagues. Surely it was perfectly natural to worry about a colleague.
Yet more and more, whenever Childermass was gone Segundus felt compelled to watch him with magic. He was constantly fearful that something might happen, that the other man was in danger. Finally, he could no longer lie to himself about the way he felt. He had firmly determined never to act on his affections, however.
And then that morning he had cast the spell to see Childermass. All his very worst fears had come to pass.
“Pass the toast, please, Segundus.”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Thank you.” Honeyfoot selected a piece and began to cover it liberally with jam.
Segundus took a deep breath. He must act very natural. “Mr. Honeyfoot,” he began as airily as he could manage. “I would very much appreciate your opinion.”
“Certainly,” said his friend, looking up from breakfast. “How may I help you?”
“When I cast the spell to locate Mr. Childermass I could not find him in England, in Europe, or in Faerie.” Segundus was proud of how still his voice was. “But shouldn’t the spell reveal his location even if he were-dead?”
Segundus forced himself to take a sip of tea. He must not show how much the question meant to him.
Mr. Honeyfoot considered for an excruciatingly long time. “I suppose I might expect it to,” he conceded finally. “But after all, Mr. Childermass left us only two days ago. He has not had time to travel anywhere besides England or Faerie. No, I regret to say it, but I believe he must be dead.”
“I understand you perfectly, sir,” said Segundus. He had to replace his teacup in its saucer, for he was worried he might break it and cause a scene.
“A great shame.” Honeyfoot sighed. “Whatever his faults, he proved to be a good man in the end. I hope he is at peace now.”
“Yes.” Segundus nodded. “Yes, I quite agree.”
Honeyfoot returned to breakfast. Segundus returned to shredding his toast.
The world was going on as normal. As though nothing was wrong. As though they had suffered no great loss.
The day before Segundus had known to hide his tears. But he had not fully grasped how excruciating his life would now be. He must act as though nothing was amiss, as though Childermass’ death was a shame and not a tragedy. He must seem completely indifferent, yet suffer the loss of that person whose existence had become his entire happiness.